Andrea Pirlo: I Think Therefore I Play

131 Pages·2014·5.39 MB·English

BackPage Press
Copyright © Andrea Pirlo and Alessandro Alciato, 2013
English translation copyright © Mark Palmer, 2014
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
First published in the United Kingdom in 2014
by BackPage Press
ISBN 978 1 90943 016 7
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by
any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express permission
of the publisher A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Design and typeset by
Freight Design Cover photograph by Vivien Lavau Indexing by David Toner Ebook production by Laura
Kincaid,
tenthousand creative services
www.backpagepress.co.uk
@BackPagePress
For my family, my wife and my children.
A simple dedication for special people
Andrea Pirlo
For Niccolò – because every day is Christmas
Alessandro Alciato
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Photos
Index
Thanks
Introduction
By Cesare Prandelli, Italy manager
Andrea Pirlo is a player who belongs to everyone. Guys like him should be a
protected species. Every ground is Andrea’s ground – fans look at him and see a
universal champion, capable of taking them beyond the concept of supporting a
single team. They see Italy.
Truth be told, it wouldn’t surprise me if Andrea went to bed at night wearing
blue pyjamas, the same colour as the Azzurri jersey. His love for that shirt is
immense; absolutely boundless.
Before speaking about the Andrea of today (and tomorrow, and forever), we
need to go back to the days when I coached the Atalanta youth teams. My
responsibility was the Allievi,1 and during the week there was always a lot of
chat about the toughest opponents and most exciting young talents we’d come up
against over the season. Naturally we’d reference Milan and Inter, but most of all
we’d talk about Brescia. That rivalry was all about local pride.
As we prepared for training one day, one of my assistants burst into the
changing room completely out of breath.
“Cesare, I’ve seen a really talented kid. Insanely good. Trouble is, he plays for
the Brescia Giovanissimi.”2
What struck me wasn’t so much what he’d said, rather the incredulous look on
his face. This was a guy who’d watched hundreds of games in his time. As luck
would have it, the following week Atalanta Giovanissimi were down to play that
self-same Brescia team. A side where a slight little kid two or three years
younger than his team-mates was bobbing and weaving his way round the pitch.
That kid’s name was Pirlo.
He left me speechless. I’d never seen anything like it. I got the distinct
impression that everyone was watching him and him alone, thinking the exact
same thing: “This is the one. This is the new talent.” In the eyes of others, he’s
never been a child.
Pirlo brings people together because he is football. He’s the most skilful type
of player, someone who’s never done anything horribly wrong – he’s the essence
of the game. For that reason, he’s recognised as a global talent, a player who
sends out a positive message with every touch he takes. The message is that
sometimes even normal guys can be truly exceptional.
Those of us lucky enough to be in Bergamo that day bore witness to his
ability. On the pitch, he goes about his business with a disarming nonchalance.
Few and far between are the players even capable of conceiving of some of the
things he does. It’s no surprise that at the end of every Italy game, there’s a
queue of opposition players outside our dressing room wanting to swap shirts
with him. They like him, too.
The really extraordinary thing is that Andrea is a silent leader – something
that’s not easy to find in the world of football. Back in my playing days, before I
became a coach, I got to know a fantastic man, Gaetano Scirea.3 It’s uncanny
how closely Andrea resembles him. Their way of conducting themselves is
identical. On the rare occasions when these silent leaders choose to say
something, the rest of the dressing room shuts up and listens.
I’ve witnessed this first-hand on a couple of memorable occasions. The first
was as a team-mate of Gaetano’s, the second with Andrea as coach of the Italian
national team. I’ll never forget those experiences. In the first instance I was full
of awe; in the second, admiration. The lesson was pretty clear: people who keep
their voices down reap the rewards later on. And those rewards include the
unconditional respect of the people round about them.
In this book Andrea says, and I quote: “After the 2014 World Cup in Brazil,
I’m going to retire from international football. I’ll be hanging up my heart. Until
that day, nobody must dare ask me to stop, apart from Cesare Prandelli, should
he have tactical reasons.”
I can say for definite that I won’t. The most difficult thing for a coach is to say
“enough” to a real talent. A choice like that ideally should be made in tandem
with the player. But, really, it’s not even worth discussing: I can’t think of a
single reason why I’d leave Andrea out between now and the World Cup.
People like him and Gigi Buffon embody the true spirit of Italy. If everyone
had the same respect for that shirt, our world would be a better place. After so
many battles, their motivation remains exactly the same as it was the first day
they stepped into the environment.
Andrea was born dreaming, and to allow us to dream. Thinking about it, he’s
still the kid I saw all those years ago, pulling on a Brescia strip that was
somewhat bigger than him. There was a time when Atalanta Youths could have
signed him, but it would have been a real insult to Brescia. We actually called a
meeting to discuss the possibility of bringing him in, but our president Percassi,
an enlightened man, understood that we’d have caused a diplomatic incident.
I’ll never forget his words: “Pirlo stays where he is. People like him should be
left in peace. He needs to keep enjoying himself and playing with happiness. I
don’t want him to feel any kind of pressure. He must remain a player who
belongs to everyone.”
Percassi had understood perfectly. Percassi had understood Pirlo.

1. Literally: “the pupils”
2. Literally: “the very young ones”
3. Having started out with Atalanta, Scirea, a sweeper, was at the heart of Juventus and Italy success in the
late 1970s and 1980s, including the 1982 World Cup
Chapter 1
A pen. Beautiful, granted, but still just a pen. A Cartier: shiny, a little bit heavier
than a biro and emblazoned with the Milan club crest. But still just a pen.
The ink cartridge was blue. Plain old blue. I looked at the pen, spun it round in
my hand like an infant examining its first soft toy. I studied the thing from a few
different angles, seeking out hidden depths and meanings. Trying to understand.
Trying so hard that I felt a headache coming on and a few drops of sweat slide
down my face.
Finally, the flash of inspiration arrived. Mystery solved: it was, indeed, just a
pen. No added extras. Its inventor had left it at that. Deliberately? Who knows.
Suddenly I heard a voice. “For goodness’ sake, don’t use it to sign for
Juventus.”
Adriano Galliani had at least managed to come up with a decent line. As a
leaving present, I’d have expected something a little more than his perfect comic
timing. Ten years at Milan, finished, just like that. Still, I raised a smile, because
I know how to laugh, loud and long.
“Thanks for everything, Andrea.”
As the club vice president and chief executive spoke, sat safely behind his
desk, I had a look around. I knew his office like the back of my hand. It was a
vault in the heart of Milan’s old administrative base on the Via Turati. I had
happy memories of that room: other contracts, other pens. And yet I’d never
noticed some of the photos on the walls, or had only done so distractedly. Those
photos had a weighty history, but the prestige was subtly understated.
There was every type of photo on display. Memories of glory days and once-
in-a-lifetime occasions. Trophies lifted into the air; clouds always being pushed
just that little bit out of shot. My picture was being taken down from the frame,
but not by force. Getting bored of Milan was a risk I didn’t want to run. That’s
why at that last meeting I was sorry, but just the right amount. Galliani and
Tullio Tinti, my agent, both felt the same way.
We said our goodbyes without regret. In the space of half an hour (probably
not even that), I was out of there. When you’re in love, it’s time you need. When
the feeling’s gone, having an excuse can help.
“Andrea, our coach Massimiliano Allegri reckons that if you stay, you won’t
be able to play in front of the defence. He’s got a different role in mind for you.
Still in midfield, but on the left.”
One small detail: I still thought I could give of my best playing in front of the
defence. If the sea’s deep, a fish can breathe. If you put him just under the
surface, he’ll get by, but it’s not quite the same thing.
“Even with you sitting on the bench or in the stand we’ve won the league. And
you know, Andrea, the strategy’s changed this year. If you’re over 30, we’re only
offering a year’s extension.”
Another small detail: I’ve never felt old, not even at that very moment. Only
indirectly did I get the impression that people were trying to make out I was
finished. Even now, I struggle to get my head round their reasoning.
“Thanks, but I really can’t accept. There’s a three-year deal on the table at
Juventus.”
It was a polite ‘no’ for Milan, without money even entering the conversation
that spring afternoon in 2011. Not once in those 30 minutes was it ever
mentioned. I wanted to be thought of as important, a key player in the club’s
plans, not someone about to be thrown on the scrapheap.
It was, it seemed, the end of an era and I felt in need of something new. Alarm
bells had been ringing ever since the middle of what turned out to be my last
season at the club, one ruined by a couple of injuries. I arrived at Milanello for
training and realised that I didn’t want to go into the dressing room. Didn’t want
to get changed, didn’t want to work.
I got on well with everyone and had a normal kind of relationship with Allegri
– there was just something in the air. I recognised the walls that over the years
had sheltered and protected me, but now I was starting to see cracks. I could
sense some kind of draught that was out to make me sick.
That inner urge to go somewhere else, to breathe a different air, became ever
more pressing and intense. The poetry that had always surrounded me was now
becoming routine. It wasn’t something I could ignore. Even the fans maybe
wanted a bit of relief. For so many years they’d applauded me at San Siro of a
Sunday (and a Saturday, a Tuesday, a Wednesday…), but now perhaps they
wanted to stick new faces in their Panini album, hear new stories being told.
They’d got used to the things I did, my movements, my creations. They weren’t
awestruck any more. In their eyes, the extraordinary was in real danger of
becoming normal.
You can’t be Pirlo any more. That was a difficult idea to accept. In actual fact,
it was deeply unjust. It brought on the start of a sore stomach as I searched in
vain for that lost stimulus.
I sat down with Alessandro Nesta: friend, brother, team-mate, roomie. A man